


White Lightning

by orphan_account



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (2006)
Genre: Gen, POTC - Freeform, but has some very graphic descriptions, for pirategasm's, hallowe'en horror fic fest, hence the archive warning, not actually all that violent, of gore and the like, originally on LJ, originally written in 2007, witching hour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 08:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the LJ community pirategasm's Hallowe'en challenge 'Witching Hour' in 2007. The prompt/theme was 'nightmare' and I chose to write the character of Mercer, herein named 'Derrick Mercer'. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>The silence is thick and dusty, as dry as coffin wood. The air doesn't seem to move, cold grey flakes hanging still. Leaves fall from a black sky, autumn leaves slowly swirling to earth. It is not dark, though the sky is blacker than night. Everything shines with a crisp whiteness, the leaves frosted at their edges the moment they land. Afraid he too will frost and freeze into this landscape, Derrick moves on, walking.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	White Lightning

 

Witching Hour – **White Lightning**

∞

**Derrick Mercer**

  
  
Bone-rattling screams are shaking the air, sending a vibrating chill through his bones. The scream is everywhere, pervading the very corners of his thoughts. Derrick realizes he is running.  
  
Bare feet sting against harsh grey cobblestones, shattered and torn. Pieces of stone are trembling across the ground around him, shaking with the scream. The flakes of stone protrude and roll, rising out of the earth with liquid grace. The brown earth tosses and churns, then stains red. The grey stone is white, white bone. Bone sticking up, dead bone. A skull looms in front of him, teeth shattered remnants of cobblestone. The scream is coming from him.  
  


\+ + + +

  
  
The silence is thick and dusty, as dry as coffin wood. The air doesn't seem to move, cold grey flakes hanging still. Leaves fall from a black sky, autumn leaves slowly swirling to earth. It is not dark, though the sky is blacker than night. Everything shines with a crisp whiteness, the leaves frosted at their edges the moment they land. Afraid that he too will frost and freeze into this landscape, Derrick moves on, walking.  
  
The moment he begins walking, he realizes he can't stop. He passes buildings, lifeless and deathless, looming monstrosities unaffected by the sickly shimmer of the stones beneath his feet. With each step, heat from his feet increases, at odds with the sharp air. Derrick looks down to discover them bare and cracked, leaking blood onto the cobbles.  
  
There is no pain.  
  
He breathes, aware that nothing else here does. His lungs pinch and shiver in the cold air, his nose cries protest at each indrawn breath. And yet, when he breaths out, there is no white fog, no misting of his breath. His lungs heave in and out, pinch and freeze, agony in each movement.  
  
He wonders why he must breath.  
  
Derrick is sick, nose red and runny, running red. Copper tinges his upper lip, melding with the metallic taste of the air to create something fake and golden.  
  
There is pain.  
  
Buildings flicker familiar, grey statues from a forgotten time. Landmarks marking land better not identified. Derrick recognizes, he objects. Try though he may, he cannot turn his bleeding feet from the path they tread. He leans far to the side, but still he walks forward. He cries out, than silences himself immediately. The sound suffocates into the glistening, black air. Fear is choking his throat.  
  
Need he breathe?  
  
Wrought-iron is writ into existence, scratching a frosted black skeleton across the sickly landscape. Ghastly tombstones emerge, free of frost and stained pink. Pale, watered down blood covers them in the sheen of a womb. Derrick trembles, pleading internally. His feet bring him to the familiar gate and stop. He clutches at bars, desperate, pushing himself away.  
  


\+ + + +

  
  
Falling. Landing. Pain jars his shoulder. A circle of children leer above him, ragged and desperate. Some are shoeless. Some are hatless. Some are starving. Some are naked. Sing-song in the high-pitched wail of a mourner echoes in the silence; all are swaying and stamping and weaving back and forth over him.  
  
“Cobblers' children got no shoes!  
Weavers' children got no clothes!  
Hatters' children got no hats!  
Bakers' children got no food!”  
  
They cry this out, then demand of him that question. Tears are streaming down his face unchecked and unfelt.  
  
“What you got no?' They cry, they wail, they chant with malicious glee, “What you father do?”  
  
“Undertaker!” The cry rips itself from his throat, blood mingling with tears and staining his clothes, “I got no life!”  
  
They laugh then, cackling as crows, and crows are wheeling through a frosty sky.  
  
"Derrick's dead!" They call.  
  
"Derrick's dead!" They cry.  
  
"Derrick's dead!" They weep, gnash, wail, and scream victoriously.  
  


\+ + + +

  
  
The gate of frosted iron doesn't exist and he tumbles down. The skein of un-life covering the tombs breaks, ripping apart with oozing creaks. Derrick is crying, blood and tears mingling freely. He can't move, so fearful is he.  
  
There is pain everywhere.  
  
Bodies emerge, as they were buried. Here is the one who was strangled, ghoulish face purpled and blotchy. Here is the one who was kicked by a horse, head smashed in and brains falling out. They come for him, dripping with the un-life mucus, calling like ravens.  
  
Why? Why the breath in his lungs?  
  
Not ambling, not stumbling, but slinking, tumbling, and running as only the dead can. They trip towards him, howling wildly. He tries to rise and run, but frost coats his hands and legs, locking him to the ground.  
  
The pain is covered in numbing stillness.  
  
They are on him, around him, covering him and coating him, cackling and howling. 'Death' they hiss on voices like the Hell Wind, 'You are death. You are dead.' They clutch at him, hands painting him pink. He is shuddering, helpless.  
  
There is no breath in his lungs.  
  
He opens his mouth to breath and finds no air. He screams, but doesn't make a sound. As he rises the frost rips the flesh from his bones.  
  
There is pain.  
  


\+ + + +

  
  
Corpses are falling, drifting through the sky like leaves, shaken apart by the screams echoing across the tombs. The black of the sky is whitening; the frost of the ground is greying. The scream is shaking his naked bones, femur and tibia bare to the gnawing air. Somewhere, there is a bell that tolls. Derrick realizes he is running.  
  
White lightning flashes across the sky.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Though I have largely maintained the original writing, there were a few small instances where I couldn't resist editting the word choice a little. I can't decide if the prose is too purple or not! Even with the perspective of years.
> 
> Written in 2007, originally posted on Livejournal under a username I would rather keep private. I also removed the "written by" line found below the title on the original, as it looked silly. Used the nickname of 'Pearlsie' as author-name though. :D
> 
> And for anyone wondering about the title and the last line - as I mentioned in my original A/N, I was listening to AC/DC while writing this, so couldn't resist letting a bit of their imagery slip in.


End file.
